


Shameless

by bklt



Series: Tether [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Homophobia, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 18:29:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14267022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bklt/pseuds/bklt
Summary: Hawke wouldn’t have been equipped to handle this on a normal day, but especially not while the ideal morning had been ruined by a confrontation that she knew was a long time coming. “What do you think, mother?”“That my daughter is sleeping around with some pirate girl."Hawke can't put on airs anymore.





	Shameless

The first thought Hawke had upon waking up was “never again.”  The world spun counterclockwise around her muddled head, a dull wind in her ears. Thankfully, it wasn’t a hangover, not quite; it was that vague afterburn of a bad decision that was enough to challenge her hubris, and she had ultimately fallen in the end. It took great bravery on her part to make the smallest of movements, the slight motion confirming that yes, she was indeed alive. Opening her eyes and hoping the sun wouldn’t burn them out, she looked over to the corner of her room where she heard the soft ruffle of pages.

“Finally. I’m hungry,” Isabela said, closing the book on the desk. It looked like one she read before, some sort of satirical commentary on the chantry that she had explained to Hawke more than once. Surprisingly, she was dressed and ready for the day, daggers affixed across her back and looking none the worse for wear. Good, thought Hawke; that meant she didn’t have to make her way through the sea of weapons that she had helped Isabela fling off of herself last night.

Hawke groaned and burrowed deeper into her sheets. “You can help yourself, you know. Like usual?”

“I need a breakfast to match the size of this hangover.”

“You’re not hungover.”

“I’m just better at handling it.” She stood up and pulled the thick red covers off of Hawke, making her cry in protest and curl up at the sudden chill. “Come on. I’ve been waiting for hours.”

“Okay, okay. I’m going.” She rolled out of the comfort of her sheets and onto the floor with a dull thud, a last ditch attempt to prolong her horizontal position as long as she could. Progress had been made; she was at least out of bed.

“Hawke, I’m going to kill you.”

She felt a bundle of soft material land on her head and reached to touch it, realizing Isabela had thrown her worn maroon robe at her. “Death by suffocation. Interesting,” Hawke said, her voice muffled by her clothing.

“Get some clothes on, you goose.”

“That’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear from you.”

Isabela tapped her foot. Hawke didn’t have to see to know her arms were crossed too. “You’re very close to finding out how I’m _actually_ going to kill you.”

“I’m too valuable to die. Who will make you breakfast then?”

“It’ll be worth it.”

It took effort to stand up and slide into her robe, but she conquered the odds and managed to stumble over to the mirror for a quick look at herself. Deep red and purple marks lined her neck and collarbones, a sign of just how drunk her and Isabela had gotten the night before.

“Maker, ‘Bela. You could have taken an easy on me.”

“Oops.”

Isabela came into frame behind her, wrapping her arms around Hawke’s waist and looking at her through the reflection. With a cheeky grin, Isabela’s lips latched onto the curve of her neck, Hawke inhaling in surprise. Their eyes were trained on each other, Isabela sliding her hand underneath Hawke’s robe to feel the bare skin of her chest. She pressed her fingertips on a large mark just under her clavicle, the dull jolt of pain making Hawke gasp through her teeth and grab the back of Isabela's head, pulling her deeper. Her fingers curled to grasp a fistful of soft, curly hair, needing to find purchase when Isabela moved higher to leave another mark. It was harder this time, the nip at her neck before planting her lips peeling away the last vestige of Hawke’s control, letting out a quiet whimper. The rumble of Isabela’s low laughter vibrated through her like electricity, and the glint in her copper-bright eyes told Hawke that she was enjoying watching her fall apart in her hands. Hawke let herself give in, unable to keep her eyes open when she felt Isabela’s tongue slowly drag up the cord of her neck to her earlobe. The sensation coiled up in her solar plexus, the lightheadedness from the night before replaced by something far better.

It was over too quickly. Isabela pulled back with a devious giggle to inspect the damage, and Hawke bumped her back with her elbow, trying to regain any dignity she might have left.

“That wasn’t an invitation to add more!”

“That’s not what your face was telling me.”

There wasn’t a witty counter-argument she could think of, sighing instead and brushing her black her with her fingers to get it to stay in formation. “Do I look presentable?”

“No one’s home. I checked.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“You said it, not me.”

Isabela was first out of the room, throwing open the double doors and stretching with a gigantic and overly loud yawn that reverberated to the tall ceiling of the estate. She slid down the railing (a skill Hawke was always quite jealous of) and sauntered into the kitchen with a speed that shouldn’t have been possible when hungover. When Hawke entered after her, she already had a kettle on the stove and left all of the cupboards open from rummaging around for cups.

“How are you this energetic?” asked Hawke, closing the cupboard doors.

“I may have told a bit of a lie to get you out of bed.”

“That wasn’t even a good lie.”

“But look at that, it worked! Now you can make me breakfast.”

“Now I don’t want to.”

Isabela leaned forward and gave a quick kiss on her furrowed forehead. “You know you’ll end up doing it anyway. Might as well skip the whining and get to it.”

She knew her well. “Fine. Can you at least get the oven running and make some toast?”

While Isabela busied herself with her task, Hawke grabbed everything she needed to start cooking and filled a pitcher of water. Forgoing the use of a cup, she drank from it directly, her body begging for hydration. Isabela swiped it from her mid drink and did the same, winking at her before placing it back beside Hawke.

“I needed that more than you did,” Hawke said.

“Are you denying my basic right for a drink of water?” Isabela gasped.

“What does that even mean, ‘Bela?”

She nodded over Hawke’s shoulder to the direction of the stove. “I think the pan is hot enough. Two eggs for me.”

“Anything else, Captain?” Hawke grumbled.

“Oooh. I’ll have to get you to call me that more often. Would you like the fancy hat on or off?”

“That is the last thing on my mind right now.”  
  
The high pitch of the kettle’s whistle caused Hawke to wince, Isabela quickly taking it off the stove and pouring tea for the both of them. Hawke tossed cloves of garlic into the pan with butter, letting it sizzle before adding cured, sweet pork belly and eggs. The smell was delightful even in her compromised state. She hummed a simple tune to herself as she made sure the red meat was cooked all the way through with the right amount of char to add both a crispy and tender texture the way she liked it. Truthfully, Hawke didn’t need prodding to make them breakfast, and Isabela knew it. She rarely asked her to do things she wasn’t going to do anyways.Making food was a pure sort of pleasure, physically and mentally fulfilling. There wasn’t much Isabela wouldn’t try, and making anything from toast to a lavish meal of fish made her happy, and in turn, made Hawke happy as well.

Isabela took the thick slices of grainy toast from the stone oven and slid them onto the plates, Hawke adding the food she made and garnishing the side with a slice of tomato. The plates hadn’t even hit the table before Isabela dove into her meal, munching happily and occasionally looking up at Hawke with an affirmatory grin. “I’ll say one thing:, you know how to make the best food for hangovers,.” Isabela raved, taking a large bite out of a fatty piece of meat.

“You’re not hungover, remember?” Hawke smirked, breaking the egg over her toast and letting the yolk run down.

“I’m trying to give you a compliment! Besides, it’s still good for that.”

“Well then,” she beamed. She took a sip from her tea, the subtle spices mixed with the creaminess of the milk and sweetness of honey invigorating her like a potion. For whatever reason, she could never replicate the way Isabela made it when she wasn’t around. It was seemingly so simple, yet the ratio was always off; it was something that required her touch to get right.

“So, how would you kill me then? If you had to do it.”

The sudden breakfast topic didn’t make Isabela flinch in the slightest. She was used to this.

“Hmm. Probably something as dramatic as you are.”

“Which would be?”

Isabela sat back in her chair in contemplation, giving much thought to Hawke’s question. “I have to work with what I’m given. I’m no Crow, so I can’t be too elaborate. Maybe a dagger to the heart while you slept after a raucous night in the sack...after you let me wear that big hat and make you call me Captain."

Hawke groaned. Isabela had a one track mind sometimes. If something interested her, she would obsess or find out everything about it to an almost sarcastic amount. “Is this hat ordeal going to be a reoccurring fixation of yours?”

"When isn’t it? You know I love my hats.”

Hawke pouted in exaggeration. “My demise sounds more hilarious than it does dramatic.”

“Dramas can have comedy in them. Just like you.”

Hawke chuckled at that. “You would use Heartbreaker, I assume?” There was a name for all of Isabela’s daggers, but the matching, curved and golden-hilted Backstabber and Heartbreaker were her favourite—very on the nose, she told Hawke once. She wondered what it would feel like to get stabbed through the chest, or if she would even register it at all. Missing out on dying would be a shame, she thought, even if it were unpleasant. It would be like missing the last page out of a book, or not being able to finish the final bite of dinner.

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss out on that irony,” Isabela said.

The sound of the heavy entrance door swinging open made them jump. Hawke prayed it was Aveline welcoming herself in, or maybe Bodhan and Sandal wandering in from their errands.

“Oh! Smells good in here, Marian!”

No such luck—her mother had returned earlier than expected. The two of them looked at each other in panic, both knowing it was too late for Hawke to put on a scarf or a decent set of clothing. Her mother was either unaware or pretended not to know of their relationship. If she could deny it to an absurd degree she would, despite the fact that they hadn’t exactly been discreet about it. Between Hawke unsure of how she would react and Isabela feeling uncomfortable when talking to Leandra in general, they were in a compromising position. There was no way she could talk her way out of this—something she was usually quite good at—and they had no other option but to try and pretend nothing was amiss.

“What did you make—”

Her mother was startled by seeing Isabela sitting at the table, much like she always was whenever she saw her. Among all of her friends, Isabela likely ranked near the bottom of her mother’s list of favourites. Her eyes immediately fell onto Hawke’s neck then back at Isabela again, her eyes narrowing at the equation that added up in her mind. Putting on the most cheerful tone she could manage, Hawke tried in vain to pull her housecoat over her marks and bruises and felt the colour drain from her face. “Just...porkbelly and eggs.”

Isabela sat stone still, stuck mid bite from Leandra’s entrance. When the silence dragged on for long enough, she swallowed her toast and hastily stood up. “I should probably go,” she said quickly, avoiding eye contact with the two of them. “See you around.” She barely managed to get that sentence out before she rushed out of the kitchen and out the door, leaving Hawke to face her mother as it slammed shut. Leandra sat down beside Hawke, taking the long walk around the table to use a chair that Isabela hadn’t been in. Her stare burned into the side of her face, Hawke feeling sicker by the second.

“Do you have something to tell me?” her mother said tersely.

“No.” She moved the last bit of food around her plate, her appetite completely gone. She felt like a defiant child, caught red-handed and making a futile last stand.

“Mhm.”

The fork dropped out of Hawke’s hand with a clatter, sighing and rubbing her face with both of her palms. She wouldn’t have been equipped to handle this on a normal day, but especially not while the ideal morning had been ruined by a confrontation that she knew was a long time coming. “What do you think, mother?”

“That my daughter is sleeping around with some pirate girl,” she said, the stops and plosives leaving her mouth like venom.

“Is that a problem?”

“Yes, it’s a problem. Look at you; do you want to walk around like that?” Her mother looked at Hawke’s exposed skin in disgust, her lips pursing as she muttered. “Completely shameless.” Hawke couldn’t even think of a reply, the utterance leaving her speechless. it was not the first time her mother had used that phrase, and it stung every time she heard it.

“I’ve been making all of these arrangements with noblemen so you can finally settle down. And this?” her mother thrusted her hand to the empty chair Isabela had been in minutes before, “I should have known—I _did_ know. I suspected it.” Her mother was scandalized, acting as if Hawke had committed a crime. “And Gamlen said he’s heard whispers of you. I thought you had better judgement than that, and I didn’t believe him. For once, I should have listened.”

“I can’t blame you. He’s not exactly someone worth listening to,” said Hawke, cautioning a joke.

It was not appreciated. “Don’t speak about your uncle that way.”

This was a lot more dire than she thought if her mother was defending Gamlen, of all people. “Well, I didn’t say I liked those arrangements,” Hawke finally said. Despite Isabela’s insistence, she never outright sabotaged her outings. It was easier to go through with them than face the disappointment of her mother. At the very least, it resulted in a funny story to tell Isabela later.

“Do you know how terrible this looks on you?”

“On me? Or are you worried about how your new acquaintances are going to react?”

“You think I’m doing this for myself?” her mother said.

Hawke stifled a cold laugh. She wasn’t sure if her mother genuinely felt that way or if she was trying to convince her—and herself—that it was true. “Who else could you be doing it for? Maker knows I don’t enjoy it.”

“You’re being selfish,” Leandra said. “You always run off somewhere, and I have to stay up worried about you until you come home—if you do at all. You don’t give so much as a thought for how I feel about it.”

“Don’t change the subject—”

“Carver is dead and Bethany might as well be. You’re all I have.”

Hawke’s nostrils flared, unmoved by her mother’s attempt at guilting her. It was a tactic she employed often, one that usually made her back off and stop any meaningful conversation because of how hard it was to reopen old wounds. Leandra didn’t shirk back from blaming her for Carver’s death or Bethany being taken away. There were many sleepless nights before she reached something that resembled self-forgiveness. “You seem to forget that you’re all I have left too,” she said before pausing, forcing herself not to fall for her mother’s trick. Any argument they had always seemed to be the opportunity to bring up any sort of grievance they had with one another, and this was not the time for it. “What I don’t understand is how you can tell me who to be with when you went through the same thing with father.”

“That was different.”

“How was that different?” Hawke asked, incredulous. “You were betrothed to someone but instead you fled Kirkwall with father. Did you try and humour your parents when they set you up? Do you not see the similarity?”

“You know why it was different,” Leandra said quietly.

Hawke sprung up from her chair and gripped the back of it to restrain herself from walking out of the kitchen. She always told herself that her mother’s endeavours to push her into meeting men was out of misguided ignorance, and she could never entertain the thought that it was more malicious than that. Hearing it from her now was confirmation she never wanted to grapple with, and it was made worse that she felt an odd sense of relief at the vague admittance. She shook her head, her eyes ice. “is that what this is really all about? You want me to look normal for you? Do I make you ashamed?”

“I didn’t say that,” her mother snapped.

“What could you possibly have meant by that?” Hawke snapped back. “You wouldn’t care if I were seeing a man. But I’m not, and here we are.”

“You need to start thinking about where your life is headed, Marian,” her mother said. “Are things really going so well with her that you can’t consider other options? Think about your future instead of fooling around with some pirate girl who’s as directionless as you, like a confused youth.”

“Stop calling her that,” Hawke choked. “Stop.” She clawed at the back of her neck, her body wanting to tear itself apart but unable to find the means. “You don’t understand. You don’t even try.”

“There’s nothing to understand. I know her type. She’ll play along until she gets bored and leaves you. You’ll see. I’m trying to help and you won’t let me.”

“You don’t need to protect me, mother. Not like this.”

“I don’t see why it’s so abhorrent that I want to help.”

“This isn’t help,” Hawke scoffed. “Please tell me you can see how absurd this all is. It’s hypocritical—”

“I told you it’s not the same thing,” Leandra spat.  
  
“And I asked what you meant by that and you still aren’t answering me. What other conclusion am I supposed to make?”

“I gave you my reason and you still don’t think it’s good enough.”

“It isn’t. You don’t know her.” Hawke’s breath was beginning to get short and desperate. “Even if you were right, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s unfair of you to make that judgement for me. Especially given the fact you’ve been in my situation before.”

“It’s not the same,” her mother echoed. Hawke began to clear off the table, stacking the plates onto the island counter behind her. The conversation was going in circles, and she had no idea how to get out of the endless loop.

“What’s the real issue here? I’m the only child left who can have grandchildren and I can’t do that for you?”

Her mother threw her arms up, having hit a nerve. “I told you what my concerns are. You’re making this into something it isn’t.”  
  
“No. You are absolutely adamant about this, beyond just being concerned about Isabela’s character. Why haven’t you set me up with any noblewomen if that was the case?”

“That’s unrealistic and you know it.”

Hawke sighed. The defense was convenient more than anything else, but she wasn’t wrong. “But why do it at all?”

Leandra moved her jaw forward, eyebrows creasing. She chose her words carefully: “It’s not unreasonable to ask that you consider having children of your own, is it? I want a normal life for at least one of you—as the nobility you are.”

Coming back from around the counter, Hawke opened her arms wide. “Look at me, mother. Does it look like I want that?” she said with renewed anger. “My life—and Bethany and Carver’s—was never meant to be normal. Not with father. Not with our bloodline.”

“Maybe you should stop thinking of yourself for once,” her mother spat.

Hawke could do nothing but cackle, the sound of it stunning her as much as her mother. “I haven’t done a thing for myself since the day we arrived. Yet here I am, selfishly wanting a say in who I decide to keep company with. Bethany and I worked for a year to get us into Kirkwall. I went into the Deep Roads to get us out of Lowtown. I bought your estate back. I’ve been keeping up appearances so you can finally live your dream of being nobility. I can’t be something I’m not anymore. Not so you can vicariously live a life you didn’t get to have.”

Her mother shrunk back, stricken. Hawke felt a stab of guilt, realizing too late that she had crossed a line. She didn’t do these things out of obligation; she loved her mother dearly and would do anything for her. No matter what her mother’s intentions were, selfish or not, Hawke knew that it came from a place of genuine desire to see her daughter happy. But this was something Hawke could not give her, and it hurt that she couldn’t understand why. She rubbed at her eyes and sat back down again, placing a hand on her mother’s, who didn’t accept or push it away.

“You asked if things were going well with Isabela and I. A rhetorical question, I know.” Her mother stared at Hawke’s hand on top of hers, unmoving and body tense as if the contact scared her. “I’m not asking for you to like her. I’m…” Hawke trailed off, completely at a loss. A small part of her did want that. Deep down, she saw another reality where all three of them would laugh over tea and tell embarrassing stories of when she was a child, skinned palms and wooden swords fighting invisible monsters at the front of their home in Lothering. It was something that was never meant to be, something Hawke never knew she wanted until now; true acceptance, not pieces her mother thought had to be fixed.

That was why Isabela was so special. She never asked anything of her than to be who she was, brash and awkward and bad at words. They weren’t in a sweeping romance, and they didn’t want to be. Her mother saw that as a failure, that Isabela wasn’t giving her what she needed. What she couldn’t seem to grasp is how they had gotten close in a way people so rarely did. They were involved, but not in that posturing way where every sentence is carefully considered, or entire personalities were repurposed to entertain someone. They’d pick their teeth in front of each other or lounge around saying nothing as she filled out paperwork, an exasperated sigh from her desk the only sound for hours. She would often come home to find Isabela rifling through books in the library, or helping herself to whatever baked good happened to be prepared that day, leaning over the dining room table without a plate.

It was Isabela knowing to be gentle with her bad hip, some stupid ailment that came about for no other reason than to remind her that she was getting older. It was Hawke knowing where each of the hidden daggers were on Isabela’s body, and all the names that went along with them. It was eating together in the morning and discussing her own death, and all of the hips and daggers and breakfasts were freeing and honest in a way she couldn’t place. If she had the ability for flowery prose, she’d write about it the same way Isabela did on small, folded scraps of parchment and tucked away in a drawer somewhere. All she knew is that she liked all of those little moments that could be seen as insignificant to anyone else, and they filled in the blanks where words so often failed her. Those small assurances and hidden gestures meant more than a grand elopement and settling down to have three children she would have to look after.

Hawke tried to meet her mother’s eyes. “Isabela makes me happy. Isn’t that enough?”

Silence.

“If things could have been different with your mother and father, if they would have let you and father be, wouldn’t have things been better? Wouldn’t—”

“You’ve made your point, Marian. I’m not going to argue with you anymore.”

“This shouldn’t have to be an argument,” Hawke said, quiet and pleading. Her mother snatched her hand back from hers and sat up to leave, dusting invisible dirt from her purple dress.

“Mother…” Hawke dug her nails into her leg. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

Her mother nodded, dismissing herself and not returning the phrase back. Hawke closed her mouth and ground her teeth as she sat alone in the kitchen, surrounded by unfinished tea and food.

What a waste.

She wished Bethany and Carver were here, someone else to carry the weight of familial responsibility that now fell solely to her. She didn’t have to drag out their fight. She could have smiled and moved on, and things could have gone back to normal—as normal as they could in their empty estate that should be filled with her siblings and father. Grief had ripped what was left of their family apart, irreparably haunting her mother and leaving her to face every day as a demon to slay. If she could keep up her façade indefinitely, she would; but secrets are only temporary, and something had to give one day. Her biggest regret was that it didn’t end better, or even had an ending at all. Nothing had been solved, leaving them to simply be hurt and angry at each other.

There was no use sitting around. She cleaned the rest of the kitchen to an almost sarcastic degree, hoping that leaving it spotless would mean her mother didn’t have another thing to be angry at her for.

Getting dressed to head to the Hanged Man and applying the red smear across her face, she intentionally wore a tunic that didn’t cover her neck as much as it should. It was a childish way to lash out, she knew. Hawke wanted to be as shameless as her mother said she was, wearing the marks Isabela gave her like fine jewelry meant to be envied and admired. She shrugged off curious and unsavoury glances as she walked through Hightown with her arms folded behind her back, the posture making her look imposing despite her size. Here I am, she thought, bitterness surging. There is nothing to hide.

When she opened the door to the tavern, she spotted Isabela sitting at the table in the corner as expected, correctly predicting that Hawke would be wandering in for a drink afterwards. With a sigh she slumped down beside her, resting her head on the table, Isabela placing an entire bottle of whiskey in Hawke’s limp hand. It was the good, imported stuff from Antiva; she must have really thought she needed it.

So much for never again, Hawke mused, and took a large swing.

“What happened?” Isabela asked.

“Well, the good news is that mother will probably stop arranging meetings with various rogue men,” Hawke said with hollowness, shuddering from the burn of the alcohol.

“And I’m guessing the bad news is some slattern is corrupting her noble daughter,” Isabela frowned.

“Something like that,” Hawke said. This was surprising. She had expected Isabela to be laughing off the awkwardness of the ordeal. “You know I don’t agree with her.”

“I wouldn’t be involved with you the way I am if you did.”

Anxiety started to creep around Hawke’s stomach. Perhaps her mother walking in on them wasn't just that it was embarrassing. Disapproving parents seemed so domestic, a situation that implied something bigger and more serious than both of them intended. “I’m sorry that happened. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about it.”

“We both made ourselves clear that we don’t want something complicated. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt that you’re telling the truth.” Isabela was rarely frank with her, usually only brought about when Hawke got worked up by something and needed to be reeled in. “At least you don’t have to put on airs anymore. I hated how you would just go through with all that.”

“It’s hard to say no to her.”

“Can’t say I understand the whole mother thing. All I know is it’s humiliating to pretend to be someone you’re not for someone else.” Hawke knew her predicament hit close to home for Isabela, though her problems paled in comparison to what she had to experience. She too was familiar with going through the motions of wearing uncomfortable clothing and being more gracious than she should ever have to. Being put on display for a husband who treated her like a prized animal was something that affected Isabela more than she let on, only getting angry enough to talk about it when they were many, many drinks in. This time however, her commented seemed pointed in Hawke’s paranoid state.

“I would never expect you to be in something you don’t want,” she said, placing her hand on Isabela’s thigh.

Her words were cryptic. “That works both ways, Hawke,” Isabela replied, briefly brushing Hawke’s hand and sliding it away. She exhaled with a smile, trying to get the tension out of her system before laughing in amusement. “It’s funny. This is the most normal arrangement I’ve been in. We go everywhere, see everything, do everything—but I’ve never had to deal with someone’s angry mother.”

“That does seem new, yes.” It was concerning her how afraid she was of scaring Isabela off. It was silly; she was skittish, but she wasn’t unreasonable. She tried not to let her thoughts show and forced a smirk. The horrid attempt did not go unnoticed by Isabela, who ruffled Hawke’s choppy hair at seeing her nervousness.

“Let’s forget about it, Hawke. We’re fine.”

“Alright.” Trying not to think about why she was so worried about it, she braced herself for another drink. “I just wish things with my mother ended better.”

Isabela looked at her sympathetically. “I know, sweetness. But your mother loves you, even if she’s not good at showing it.”

“It wasn’t even a productive conversation.”

“Things can’t be fixed right away,” Isabela said. “You don’t want to be angry at her, but you have every right to be. You don’t fancy men, and you felt like you couldn’t say anything. And even with everything that’s happened with your family, it doesn’t mean she’s allowed to take it out on you. Not everything has to be your responsibility, believe it or not,” she smiled.

“I suppose.”

Placing a hand on Hawke’s shoulder, she tried to lift her spirits. “If you want to talk about it, I’m all ears. That’s what the alcohol is for. No promises I’ll say the right thing...not to good at that.”

“I’d rather just drink and wallow around.”

Isabela sighed. “This is rich coming from me, but you shouldn’t keep everything in all the time. It’s going to bite you in the ass one day.”

“You’re probably right.”

Taking the hint that Hawke wasn’t in the mood for a deep conversation, Isabela left her to stare at the table for a few quiet moments before speaking up. “So, what now? We’ve got the whole day to have some fun.”

“We could go to that hat shop?” Hawke suggested.  
  
“As tempting as that is—and it’s very tempting—how about something you want to do?”

For all of the times Isabela leaned into her reputation for being self-centered, there were others where that barricade slipped away, revealing someone who was more thoughtful than she would ever admit. Hawke was happy for the offer—but being content with Isabela’s company as she got excited about big hats is what she needed right now. “That _is_ what I want to do. That captain’s hat is getting more alluring the more I think about it.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Isabela drank the rest of her whiskey with terrifying speed, slamming the cup on the table and almost tipping her chair backwards as she stood up. “Let’s get out of here. And bring the bottle with you...I paid a lot for that.”

Hawke cradled the bottle to her hip. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m…” she trailed off. “Well, I did sort of get you into this mess.”

Hawke laughed and held the door open for her. “It was bound to happen sometime. Why not in the most obvious way possible?”

“Speaking of obvious,” Isabela placed her hand over Hawke’s uncovered neck.

“I’m trying a new look. Do you think it’ll catch on?”

Tugging on Hawke’s sash to get her to start walking, she lead them on their way to the shop with a roll of the eyes and a coy smile. “Completely shameless.”

It didn’t hurt when Isabela said it, the words playful and affectionate, creating a new meaning to something that had bothered Hawke so deeply countless of times before. She let her anger fall to the back of her head, determined to enjoy the day and to not dwell on her inevitable return home by the end of the night.

 

 

* * *

When she did step into her house, she quietly made her way up the staircase, standing on the balls of her feet to cloak her steps. She saw the light go out from underneath the crack of the door to her mother's bedroom, able to sleep now that she heard Hawke had come back safely. Residual anger told her to pass by and crawl into bed as if she didn’t notice, to tell herself she would deal with it in the morning as she struggled to fall asleep. Against her instinct, she forced herself to lean on the door and whisper.

“I’m home, mother.”

“You are.”

"Hawke placed her palm onto the wood, as if the contact was something that her mother would be able to feel. She had to hear that things would be okay, that they could start somewhere even if they weren’t ready to confront it yet. She had to try again.

“I love you.”

The moment hung in the air for what seemed to be an eternity, each passing second creating a deeper hole in Hawke’s chest for her to fall into. When she had given up and went to turn away, she heard her mother’s weak voice muffled from the barrier between them.

“I love you too.”

 


End file.
